


Four Horsemen of the SMP

by WovenVibes



Series: As above So Below [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Big Brother Techno, Dreams not a good guy in this im sorry, Found family > Blood, Kind of one shots?, Manipulation, Other, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil loves his son but hes scared, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, cut him some slack, its hard to explain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WovenVibes/pseuds/WovenVibes
Summary: Philza spilt blood for the first time, took a man's life, and in return the world gave him a horse and a name.Techno found his future in a war and was used only as a weapon. For his loss of humanity, he got a horse and a name.Wilbur built L'manburg with his own hands, he made it his and ran it well, if he said so himself. For his troubles, he got a horse and a name. Not everyone calls him the same thing however, as there are two sides to every coin.Tommy gave up everything for a nation that gave him nothing. He's so very tired, but at least he isn't alone anymore...In which the stars see the storm brewing, so they give the world four gifts in the form of horsemen. These men however are unaware of their power before experiencing it. The Stars also believe these four deserve a break....
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: As above So Below [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114967
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	1. A horse named Death

The heat from the sun would have been blistering anywhere else, had the children not been under the trees. Shade from the leaves gave them a brief solace from the sun's rays and plenty of shelter to play. Iron swords, most being a gift from one’s father or older brother, clinked against one another as a group of teens pretended to be older than they were. Most of them dreamed to be knights, where others just dreamed of being safe. They all wanted to defend, as most young boys do. 

But they were too small, by the laws of the land. With a war going on most above the age of 18 were demanded to fight, to kill for their king. Many of the boys had lost their older brothers. All had lost their fathers at this point into the war. Their country was losing, not that the boys knew this. Instead the boys played, under the ruse of it being training. If one from the village listened clearly they could hear pearls of laughter from the youngest of the boys, hardly more than a toddler with a wooden sword, as the eldest boy tried to show the others the correct stance.

None of them cared that a harsh wind could blow Philza over. They didn’t care that the boy himself was only 16, a farmer’s son, a coward's son. His father had been to war, had shown him the correct footwork, the way to correctly hold his netherite sword. He was their role model even if the elders of the town called his father, who had returned home crippled from the front lines, a disgrace. 

None of them cared that his father had never seen war, and they made him feel… Important. Seeing Timothy hold his own against his best friend felt empowering. The thrill he got from teaching them to do something Philza believed to be important was stronger than the rush he got when he beat them himself. 

Tim landed a good blow against his friend and Phil gave a cheer, his hands pumping in the air. “That’s a good boy,” He laughed, rushing over his friend and checking over for any cuts or bruises. Seeing none, the blond made for Tim and ruffled the eight year olds head, smiling brightly. “Not a scratch on him too, way to go. But next time remember, getting them on the ground isn’t enough.” He took the small iron sword and swung it a few times. It was lighter than his own, the tip dulled. Tim gasped lightly when the dull edge was pointed a few inches from his throat. 

“You need to-”

“Aim for the throat.” 

Phil jumped when a noise came from behind him and spun on his heel. He knew everyone in their town, but this voice… They were different. A soldier by the look of their uniforms, and their sword pulsed a strange blue. Enchanted, the sign of their king's men. But if he was one of their soldiers then… Why was he holding a bow and arrow aimed straight for Phil? 

The blond boy’s breath caught in his throat and he stared at the flint tip. They had mostly just been playing, he hadn’t hurt anyone badly enough to warrant this, so why…? 

“You. You're the traitors kid, yeah?” Traitor? Phil shook his head swiftly, still too scared to say the wrong thing as his mind seemed to work double time. The birds that sang above the sound of clanking metal even seemed to go quiet, and the only thing Phil could hear was the blood rushing through his ears as the soldier chuckled. “Sure ya are. You look just like him. Same blue eyes, same birthmark.” 

Birthmark? Phil looked at his leg and clenched his jaw tightly. He’d always regarded the mark with pride. His mother had said it reminded her of fire, of the warmth it gave. His father called it a sign for strength. Phil thought of fire as only destruction, of something that, if loose, struck fear inside others hearts. This soldier in front of him seemed only to prove that. 

But the man was right. His father had a matching one. But why did he call him a traitor? None of it made sense, and the sixteen year old boy bubbled with rage. “My father wasn’ a traitor!” He screeched, his voice scratchy and squeaky like that of a child. Against a soldier he was no match, but that didn’t mean he was going to back down. 

“He hasn’t told you then. I’m not surprised,” The man sighed and lowered his drawn bow, but he didn’t put it away just yet. If anything he stepped farther into the clearing of boys, the children backing away quickly. A few ran, not that the soldier minded. He seemed only to have eyes for Phil at this moment, going as far as reaching out and yanking the child away from Tim. 

_I’m going to die_ , Phil thought to himself as he was brought nose to nose with the man in front of him. The soldiers breath reeked of alcohol, and his chuckle made Phil cringe back. “Why don’t we go see your old man, mmm? We can have him tell his boy about how much of a disappointment he w-” The man choked on his own breath as Phil shoved his foot into it and dropped the child, curling in on himself. “Damnit!” The soldier rasped. 

Phil gasped as he hit the ground, and brushed off the arms that rushed to help him up. “Get out of here!” He yelled at the others, pushing them off. “Go home! Get my dad!” 

“Don’t you dare,” the other man snarled and grabbed Phil by the ankle, yanking him back up. “I’m going to gut you like a fish!” 

He really was going to die. But… he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, had to live. He had the fire birthmark not for the warmth he offered others, but for the fire in his gut, for the passion he had for living. Phil didn’t even think twice before he thrusted his fathers sword into the stomach of this stranger. When the man didn’t die instantly, he tore the blade upwards and quickly let it vanish into his inventory before he fell to the ground. 

All he saw for a moment was red. Red on his hands, red on the grass and in his hair. It had taken a moment for Phil to realize what had happened, and by the time he was able to move, to scramble to his feet, he felt the presence of his father, limping quickly. 

“Philza!” The older man cried when his son ran to him, tears streaming down his face and cutting a path through the grime. “What happened? Did he hurt you?” Hands patted him down, rough with use, and Phil shook his head. He couldn’t talk. There felt like there was something within his throat, within his chest, that was blocking any air from coming or going, so he just pointed to the body and cried harder. 

He’d killed a man. At sixteen years old, he killed a man. And instead of his father looking grateful he was still alive… He looked terrified. “You need to run,” He hissed towards Phil, limping over to the body of the fallen soldier. “Philza listen to me. You need to run. More will come, I promise you. When they learn of their fallen friend, and they will learn…” They’d kill him.

Because he killed someone. 

Because this man who moments ago had a life, had a future, was now dead. And it was Phil’s fault. 

The feeling that had locked his throat and chest up suddenly broke, and he was overwhelmed by fear. He was fast, he could run. So without question, without so much of an afterthought, he ran. 

===================

Night had fallen, and Philza was still running. By this point his knees were beyond scraped up, bloodied and bruised, and he felt so sore. Everything ached, and his brain was telling him to stop, take a breather. He didn’t deserve a break though. He’d taken a life and he was supposed to stop, to rest? Did he deserve that? 

Phil’s gut told him no, but he’d been moving for so long that eventually he couldn’t keep going. The young boy stumbled to a stop in the middle of a field and just breathed for a moment. The stars were unfamiliar to him here, and Philza almost cried with the realization that he was so far away from home. Too far to turn back, but the boy felt too weak to continue on. He fell backwards into a hay pile and let the tears fall. 

He missed his bed. He missed his home and his mm, he missed his bed and his friends. And now… fuck.

Fuck!

Philza’s chest rose and fell quickly, the blond panting. There wasn’t enough air around him, which was irrational. Of course there was enough air but why couldn’t he get it into his lungs? The more he tried, the more the panic set in. Everything felt wrong. His skin itched, and the bugs that chirped and sung in the night were so loud. Everything was too much. 

Philza screamed into the dark of the night, throwing his hands into the air with a shriek. It felt good to let the air out of his lungs, the air he could barely sense as it was. Shouting, screaming felt… Therapeutic in a way. So he continued to do so until his throat was raw, until he had scared off every animal within listening distance. 

All but one. 

The small foal had approached sometime during his screaming party and tilted her head at him, just watching. When Phil fell back with a final cry, she came closer and pressed her cold nose into his palm. He was tempted to push her away, to try and scare the small horse away. His hands were dirtied with blood not yet cleaned off, and he didn’t want to get her pale moonlit fur muddied as well, but the second she nuzzled into him everything stopped. 

Not as in his breath stopped, but the world for a moment came to a pause before exploding in a plethora of voices. They cried out for various things, mostly the death of those who have wronged him, and yet Philza felt that unsettling sensation settle under his skin. The voices felt like coming home, and for a moment he forgot his fears.

 _Death was natural. Death was inevitable. So why should you feel ashamed for causing the inevitable to a man?_ The voices asked quietly, comforting. The boy, so young and new to the world, looked death in the face and embraced her, arms wrapping around the neck of the foal as he continued to cry into her fur. 

“Hello there…” He whispered, not wanting to spook the baby even though his screaming hadn’t. 

“Looks like it’s just you and me huh?”

===================

Philza shook his head free of his thoughts of his childhood and looked up at Technoblade, a frown pulling at his lips. “What did you say?” The blond asked, offering a sheepish look to his piglin son. “I’m afraid I wasn’t completely here mate, you know how it is…”

Techno could only raise a brow at the man who had become his best friend, his teacher, his father. He wasn’t buying Philza’s story, but the Blood God knew better than to question the angel of Death. Instead he asked; “The voices again?” Because of course they did. A strange occurrence, a shared trait between the two of them that made them different from others. 

Different from the sons Philza had left behind in the cottage they were currently running from. The Angel of Death had no place with a family. Everyone he touched died, everything he ever loved crumbled to ash eventually. So when the voices said leave, begged him to keep the boys safe? Phil knew what he had to do. 

Death and War were no place for two little kids. 

Sensing Phil becoming lost in thought again, Techno sighed and turned back ahead, nudging his red steed into a small trot. “I said- It looks like it’s just you and me now, huh?” 

And it was, wasn’t it? Philza looked down at his horse, who had grown alongside him and never seemed to die, and brushed fingers down her mane. “It won’t be for long… Soon we’ll be back on the battlefield. And we’ll make the world safe and sound for them. When the wars over…”

Then what? They’d come back? Watch their family wither away while neither Techno nor Phil seemed to grow much older?

Philza had noticed he stopped aging somewhere around the age of thirty, Techno just a few years younger than them. It was hard to figure out why they were like this. But when their names began circulating through the battlefield, he no longer questioned it. 

Techno was a god. And Philza was his guardian angel, forever hovering, defending, his side.


	2. All I wanted, all I need is a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t Plague. He was conquest, he was the conqueror. He was…
> 
> He wasn’t sure what he was.

The wilds of change were a funny thing. They followed his father around wherever the blond fluttered, and Wilbur embraced the sensation. He liked how it felt, to be lifted up high into the air and know that years from now he’d remember this moment. He relished in the change that brought him Techno, that brought him his Tommy. 

Neither of his siblings were blood related to him in any way, but that didn’t matter to the human boy. Technoblade was a pig, that was awesome! And sometimes when Tommy’s emotions got the better of him, he glowed. Every freckle that covered his round cheeks seemed to blink in and out of existence like stars, and if Wilbur looked into the eyes of his younger brother long enough he could swear he saw galaxies. 

That moment Wilbur held Tommy in his arms he swore to the world that nothing would hurt Tommy. Not so long as he lived. And the boy was very vocal about this. He told Phil, his father, and The blond just gave Wilbur a sad, soft smile and pet his head gently. 

“My boy,” he whispered, drawing Wilbur in close. “You can’t control fate. You can’t keep him safe forever.” And the notion of his not being strong enough to protect his baby brother baffled him, so he turned to Technoblade and made the piglin swear to help protect Tommy. 

Techno swore, an oath on the stars above, that he would never hurt Tommy. That no hurt would come upon the boy. Wilbur believed his brother with all his heart. Which is why it hurt so badly to see his brother and father walk away, both riding on top of their horses that they had said were gifts from long ago. 

Tommy had woken him up, shaking and eyes wide and full of tears as he cried. There was an incoherent babbling from the boy before Wilbur wiped his tears away and demanded softly, “What happened?”

“D-dad’s gone!”

At first Wilbur hadn’t believed Tommy. Not after Wilbur made them swear to never hurt Tommy. But as he watched from the balcony of a home Philza had made for them, watched as Techno shifted through potions and weapons as they grew into dots of nothingness, he realized something. 

The world was full of liars. And he’d never let himself be hurt like that again. Not when he packed Tommy and his belongings up and began traveling, the small child leaving tear stains all over wilburs shirt when he clung to his older brother for comfort, causing Wilburs heart to splinter. He didn’t even cry the first time Tommy grew sick. Conditions were hard up north.

Time passed slowly, although Tommy seemed to age in no time at all. The once small child who would cry for his father who never returned at night grew loud and rambunctious. He made enemy’s out of those around him, and friends with very few. Tubbo was one of those few and had even taken a room at the home. The place hadn’t felt like home in years. 

The walls that used to hold drawings from their childhood now laid barren, the fields of potatoes had gotten weed infested. Wilbur couldn’t bear to see it all. 

So he lit it on fire. 

Their home burned, Tubbo, Tommy, and Wilbur all watching from the outside, and they cried. Once more, Wilbur stood strong, an unwavering pillar for his family to cry into. He was the head of the household, he could hold out until the two boys were asleep to break. But for now he was unmoving, unforgiving. 

As ash spread around their feet, Wilburs head shot up. He heard something in the wind, but it was vague and there was no one within his sight. No one but Tommy who stood to the side, jaw clenched, and Tubbo who clung to Tommy’s hand. 

With their home gone, they had nothing to return to. 

With their home gone they only had each other. And Wilbur thought that was more than enough for him. They didn’t need a home, they didn’t need a roof over their head so long as they kept moving and advancing. 

Wilbur sold their land, he sold everything they had, and bought a small van for the three of them, making sure to splurge on beds for the two boys. If he slept in the front of the van, in the driver's seat with his legs folded up against his chest? Well, they didn’t need to know that. 

Wilbur found a love for traveling, and a love for both the boys that resided in his van. When he stumbled across Fundy in a box, much like Tubbo had been, he found love in the next generation, in the future. He found love in his son, and with each day that love only grew until he was brimming with it. 

Philza had told Wilbur that _you can’t keep him safe forever_ , but that didn’t mean that the man wasn’t going to try. He would dedicate his entire lives to his child. He would be the father his dad never was, and he would be good. 

Or he thought he was going to be good. When he declared war against Dream, he didn’t expect his brothers and son to be dragged into the mess. He didn’t expect to stand at Fundy’s bedside, watching his son's chest rise and fall steadily just to know he was alive, that he was safe. Fear became an everyday emotion, and it only grew as they continued on their fight for freedom. 

When Eret betrayed them it strangely stung worse than the blade Punz put through his neck, and Wilbur’s resolve was firmer than ever before. He was going to kick Dreams ass. The voices in the wind promised him success, promised him victory for him and his kin. 

For the first time in his life, he allowed himself to listen to the voices. 

The night after the betrayal left Wilbur watching over his small family, everyone tucked away in their small beds. Fundy’s fur was stained with whatever was in those potions, and Wilbur worked gently to get his fur clean. 

_He hurt what’s ours._ the voices howled, and Wilbur could only breath out a soft sigh. 

“Yes he did,” he whispered. “They all did.”

 _Make them pay. Make them bleed. Kick their asses. Victory victory victory-_ The chanting grew and grew in volume, overwhelming his senses until a small voice cut through it all. 

“Dad?” 

Wilbur looked down towards the voice and lit up when he saw Fundy staring up at him, eyes blurry. George had gotten the fox boy good, but nothing respawning couldn’t help. The boy would be weak for a little bit however… 

“Hello my little champion,” Wilbur softly whispered, brushing the foxes hair back from his eyes. It was growing shaggy… he’d have to cut it again. “You did so well. Do you hear me? You did fantastic today my little champion." 

Fundy groaned at the nickname, or maybe it was due to the pain that seemed to radiate from every ache and wound in his body, and began the process to ease into a sitting position. Wilbur handed him a healing potion and helped the small fox ease it back. His chest rose and fell in a familiar pattern. 

Up and down  
Up and down.

Wilbur matched his breathing after a moment and sighed, checking his communicator with a frown. 

**ItsFundy was slain by GeorgeNotFound**

The words blinked up at him softly, and Wilbur didn’t even care that out of the three hearts he had woken up with this morning, only two remained. The same must have been true for everyone, if Fundy’s face was anything to go by. 

Wilbur had seen so many places, visited so many different worlds and kingdoms. This was Fundy’s first, and if he wasn’t careful, his last. The man slid his communicator into his coat pocket and gently dragged Fundy to his lap, leaning back against the wall. 

_”I heard there was a secret place, where men could go and emancipate the brutality and the tyranny of their rulers.”_ He sung softly, brushing scarred fingers through Fundy’s fur. _”Well this place is real you needn’t fret! With Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo-“_ Fuck. He didn’t think this through. Fundy stiffened in his lap and Wilbur tightened his arms around his child. “Fundy, fuck eret.” And if it didn’t flow as well, no one questioned it… 

A few more made up lines, and Fundy was dozing gently against his shoulder, Wilburs tears instantly drying in his fur. “I’ll protect you… I promise.” 

=================== 

But his promises meant nothing. Wilbur watched with tearful eyes as Dream shot Tommy. The blond seemed to fall backwards slowly, and a scream rang out through the town. But it wasn’t his voice that screamed. Wilbur couldn’t place the cries, but as he watched on he felt helpless. His promises meant nothing if he couldn’t keep even his youngest brother, someone who he sometimes thought of as a son. 

He had been there the first time Tommy got sick. The first time Tommy skinned his knee, he cried for hours over the pain. But now there were no tears, nothing said due to the Arrow through the already dead boys throat. 

Another death. 

Three life’s, now down to one. Because Wilbur had been so selfish. 

Tubbo rushed forward and removed the arrow, knowing that if it was allowed to stay, it would screw up the respawning process. Shaking hands pressed over the wound and Dreams' cheers fell upon stunned ears. They lost. 

They _Lost_

_That was not acceptable._

_He killed Tommy, again. He allowed Tommy to get hurt and you sat by and watched. You let a child fight for you. You let this child speak for you and now he’s hurt. This is on you._

This respawning didn’t take nearly as long as the control room, and by the time Tommy was returning to consciousness, Dream stood threatening over the boy. 

“Mellohi. Give it,” the hoodie wearing male growled out, teeth gritting together. But Tommy hesitated still, only to pull out both discs. Wilbur's voice caught in his throat and he watched, confused. 

Tommy only looked straight ahead, eyes still glassy from his respawn. “I’ll give you both discs… for L’manburg.” 

And how could Dream turn down an offer like that? 

=================== 

The flag of L’manburg waved slowly in the wind above the van that had brought everyone there, and Wilbur for once felt at peace. Their nation was growing everyday, and the people seemed happy for the most part. Tommy snoozed against the pole, Fundy was off building or exploring, and all felt calm. They weren’t at war, they weren’t fighting or running for their lives. 

Tommy and Tubbo got to be kids again, Fundy got to be a kid. And Wilbur got to be president of his small nation. The voices seemed pleased, and were no more than a soft mumbling at the back of his skull. At times they seemed worse than others, but for the most part they were kind. They craved chaos though, and Wilbur found it amusing. 

When a nose nudged his head, his eyes opened slowly and he jumped a little at the sight of the seemingly glowing white horse in front of him. He’d seen the horse around, noticeable by the sheen of its fur and the way its hair seemed to flow. It needed to be braided, so in this moment of peace Wilbur attempted to do just that. 

Strangely enough the beast let him, laying down beside Wilbur with a huff. The pale horse reminded him of something, someone, although he couldn’t place it. He threw his head back with a neigh and Wilbur grinned, finishing off the braid with a small band. “There we go boy,” He giggled, brushing fingers down the muscular neck. 

“Is that Phil’s horse?” 

That’s who the horse reminded him of. Wilbur stiffened and watched the horse for a moment, only to shake his head. “Dad didn’t leave death out of his sight. It’s not his.” 

_Their dad wasn’t here._

He wasn’t coming back. Wilbur had accepted that long ago. But that didn’t mean that Wilbur couldn’t hang on to the things that reminded him of his father. Brushing the horses pelt, Wilbur smiled. “I’m gonna name you friend.” 

_His name is Conquest._

No. No it wasn’t. For once, Wilbur just wanted one thing for himself… He just wanted a friend. 

=================== 

As Wilbur and Tommy ran from the festival, from the election and from all of L’manburg, Jschlatts words rang in his mind. 

_“The Plague is gone! Long Live Manburg!”_

_Plague._

Another layer of voices piled on top of the old, familiar ones, and Wilbur tugged Tommy onto Friend, eyes wide. He wasn’t Plague. He was conquest, he was the conqueror. He was… 

He wasn’t sure what he was. All he knew was he needed to get away, get Tommy safely away. But there was no safety for them anymore. Not here. Tommy had one life left, Wilbur had one as well, after the fiasco with Punz yet again. Why was it always Punz who pulled the killing blow? 

Wilbur tugged Friend into the forest and He rushed forward, hoofs kicking up chunks of grass as the horse put as much distance between them and L’manburg. He didn’t stop either until they were a few miles away, and the pain of Wilburs wounds made it difficult to continue onwards. 

The man tried to ease his way off the horse, but tumbled off instead and cried out when he hit the ground. “Fuck!” Tommy slid off next to him and eased him up, quickly making a hole in the side of the hill to hide the two of them in. “I’m calling for help.” 

“Don’t you dare. There’s no one here who can help us…” 

“Not here. But on other worlds,” Tommy pulled his communicator out and sent off several messages, chest rising and falling swiftly. “Who are you messaging?” Wilbur panted softly, holding his hand against the bleeding wound in his side. 

“I’m messaging The Blade.” 


End file.
